


Mine / Yours

by Baekhesten



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: About Anders, Act III, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 05:02:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6270622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baekhesten/pseuds/Baekhesten
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jealousy is an ugly beast, and Fenris isn't sure he knows how to tame it. Hawke's frequent visits to Darktown leave him more and more troubled, until something finally gives.</p><p>It hurts both more and less than he was expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mine / Yours

Fenris never thought himself the jealous type.

It’s not the sort of attitude often cultivated in a slave. After all, that would imply that he _owned_ something. Slaves don’t own anything, least of all themselves. Fenris isn’t a slave anymore, but he’s still never really mastered the concept of ownership. Places, people, and objects have always come and gone without meaning. It’s never meant much to him to lose things, because he’s never really felt like he can lay claim to anything but his own freedom.

So jealousy’s never really been in his repertoire. At least, that’s what he tells himself when Hawke heads for Darktown for the third time this week. It’s not like Hawke keeps it a secret where he’s going: to a little hovel tucked in the corner of the Undercity, where a certain abomination spends most of his time. It seems like that’s where Hawke’s spending most of his time too, lately.

Fenris wants to pretend it doesn’t bother him. That this strange twist in his chest is just his lyrium reacting to Hawke’s magic as Hawke nears him. That he doesn’t feel like, for the first time in his life, he’s losing something that _matters_. After all, to lose something, you must first own it. And he doesn’t own Hawke. He wouldn’t want to. Hawke is a burst of life and energy, of wit and fire and laughter… Hawke’s not something that should ever be contained.

It’s a selfish heart that would try, Fenris knows. But damn him if he can stop himself from reaching out and grabbing Hawke’s arm as he passes. “Hawke.”

Hawke glances back at him, with that cocky tilt to his head and a smile dancing on his lips. “You know, someday you’re gonna have to start calling me by my first name.” Then, taking a second to properly read Fenris’s expression, he says, “Sorry. Something wrong?”

Fenris isn’t sure if it’s his own emotions or the ever-present linger of magic on Hawke’s skin that’s making his lyrium run blue, but either way the pulse of it feels like a punishment. So he drops his hand and says, “You’re going to see the—” He bites back the word ‘abomination’; Hawke tolerates a lot, but not that word. “—mage, again.” It’s a statement more than a question.

“Yes, I will probably see a mage at least once during my time out,” he says with another smile and a roll of his eyes. “Particularly if I happen to look in a mirror.”

Fenris doesn’t think that’s funny, so he just says, “You know who I’m talking about.”

Hawke sighs, turning to face him fully. “He has a name, you know.”

“I am aware.”

“Anders. C’mon, you can say it.” Hawke gives him an encouraging grin, but when Fenris doesn’t echo it, he just continues, “Yeah, I’m going to see Anders.”  He puts his hands to Fenris’s waist, pulling him in close and saying teasingly, “Why, you jealous?”

Hawke leans in to kiss him, and for a moment Fenris just wants to _give in_ . But Hawke’s words dig deep under his skin, and he tenses and pushes back with a little more force than necessary. “I am _concerned_.”

Drawing back, Hawke just stares at him for a second, before saying, “That… what, he’ll convince me to bind a spirit to my soul or something?” He laughs a bit, as if that thought is entirely ridiculous. Fenris doesn’t think it is. “C’mon, I like my body way too much to share. Besides, I hear you don’t like threesomes.”

Fenris’s mouth twitches, because, okay, that was a _little_ funny. But all he says is, “There are other ways for him to corrupt you.”

There’s only silence after that, and Fenris can see Hawke’s armor of wit and charm cracking.

“ _Corrupt_ me?” Hawke says the word like it’s acid, and there’s a look in his eyes Fenris can’t quite decipher. It’s not anger. It’s something rawer, more vulnerable. “Is that really what you think of him, Fenris? That he’s… what, a fucking poison?”

Fenris flinches, staring back at him as he says, “He could be. Hawke, you’re…” He sighs, looking away (and pretending it’s not because something in Hawke’s gaze _hurts_.) “You’re volatile.” It’s not an insult, not even an accusation. Just a fact both of them know to be true. “And so is he. It’s a bad combination. I…” He finds himself struggling with his words; talking about his inner state is always a battle. For a second, he considers the words _I’m afraid_ , before skipping over them because they don’t taste right on his tongue, and they can’t convey the complexity he needs. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Maker, Fenris, all we do is talk!” He rolls his eyes, throwing his hands up in that dramatic way of his. “You act like he’s teaching me blood magic or something. Don’t worry, every time I mention Merrill he makes sure to remind me what a terrible idea blood magic is.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about.”

“Then what _are_ you worried about, Fen?” Hawke’s tone rings tired, and he runs a hand through his hair, glancing away. “Look, if you’re thinking I’m gonna turn into a… self-sacrificing renegade for the mage cause, or something…” He rolls his eyes, dismissing the thought with a wave of his hand.

Fenris’s response dies on his tongue, because that’s it, isn’t it? Fenris knows Hawke isn’t weak enough to fall to demons or blood magic. But that doesn’t mean he can’t still get caught up in the blind fury and rebellion that has led so many mages to their deaths, blood magic or no.

Hawke clearly thinks the idea is ridiculous, but Fenris knows better. Fenris was there when Hawke met his first tranquil mage. He was there when they stopped Ser Alrik. And he was there when Carver joined the templars. Fenris knows that Hawke’s passion and anger for the plight of mages runs deeper than the lyrium in his veins.

When he actually takes a moment to think about it, he realizes he’s not afraid that Hawke will choose Anders over him. Fenris knows Hawke better than that. He’s afraid of Hawke becoming someone he _doesn’t_ know; someone so consumed by the pain of this city that he forgets who he is in the name of a ‘higher cause.’ He’s seen it happen before. All it would take is the right push, and Fenris could lose him.

And the terrifying part is… maybe he already has.

“You talk to him a lot,” he says, voice steely to keep from shaking. “Why? He can’t be that interesting.” Unless they’re talking about magic and rebellion and stoking the fire in both of them; unless they’re already planning something; unless the abomination’s corruption’s has already snaked its way into Hawke’s heart; unless, unless, unless—

“Maker, Fenris, because I can’t talk to _you!_ ”

The shout rings loud in the hall, and Fenris’s world stutters to a halt. For a long moment all he can do is stare at Hawke. There’s something caught in his throat, and his skin thrums with lyrium. Then, carefully, tongue like ash, “Hawke, I…”

“Fuck.”

Hawke turns and strides back the way he came, and Fenris is left in the empty silence of the entry hall. It seems cold, suddenly, the once-inviting walls now ominous and threatening. Fenris has never called Hawke’s home his own, but he’s always been welcome here. Now, though… he feels like an intruder, something to be spat out the front door.

It takes him a full minute to force himself to move, and when he makes it to the bedroom, he finds Hawke hunched over on the edge of the bed, staring at his hands. Fenris hesitates in the doorway, before slowly coming over to sit next to him. There are no words between them until Fenris reaches out to rest his hand on Hawke’s shoulder, more hesitant than he’s been in a long time. “Hawke…?”

Hawke twitches a bit, half-sliding his gaze towards him—but not quite meeting it. “Sorry,” he says, voice rough. He clenches his fingers, relaxes them again, and drops his gaze to the floor.

“You… have no reason to apologize,” Fenris says carefully, unsure what else to do.

Hawke shrugs. Fenris doesn’t know what that means, so they both lapse into silence until Hawke says, “You remember when Anders asked you if you’d ever wanted to kill yourself, back when you were a slave?”

It takes Fenris a second to adjust to the sudden switch in conversation, and then he says with no small amount of confusion, “Yes?” Vaguely, at least. It must have been years ago. The only reason it stuck in his memory at all is he can still remember the way Hawke flinched when the question was asked. It had been so soon after his mother died; Fenris couldn’t blame him for not wanting to think about death.

Hawke stares down at his hands, and his voice is cracked around the edges as he says, “You said no, you never have. Because it’s a sin against the Maker.”

Fenris just watches him, unsure where this conversation is going. He lets his hand slide down Hawke’s back, keeping his touch light and unobtrusive. Just enough to let him know he’s there.

Finally, Hawke closes his eyes and gives a rough sort of laugh. “Well, I’m a sinner.”

And then everything falls into place, just as something inside Fenris shatters. For a few moments, he’s not sure he can _breathe_ , and he digs his fingers into Hawke’s back just to reassure himself that he’s still there. His lyrium runs bright enough to hurt his eyes, so he closes them as he forces out, “Hawke, I’m so sorry.” Sorry for that stupid, senseless comment; sorry he didn’t realize sooner; sorry that he hasn’t been here for him; sorry that Hawke didn’t even think he could _tell_ him…

Hawke closes his eyes as well, drawing in a breath and saying, “After Bethany, I… I couldn’t take it. Mother always said she was so grateful that at least—at least Carver and I lived. But it didn’t feel like fucking living.” He clenches his fist, looking down again, and Fenris can feel him tremble beneath his touch.

There’s nothing Fenris can say, so he just presses his fingers against Hawke’s back and waits for him to continue.

He does, after a few moments, saying roughly, “On the way over from Ferelden, I tried to hang myself. Lots of spare rope on a ship, right?” He laughs, and it’s the most pained sound Fenris has ever heard. “Shitty rope, though. Snapped as soon as I stepped off the chair.”

Is this what it feels like to be run through? Fenris has never had the experience, but it feels like something cold and dark and deadly has slipped between his ribs, choking him and making his lyrium glow so blue it hurts. The scene runs through in his head, clear as day, except all he can picture is a rope that was strong enough to keep Hawke from ever reaching Kirkwall. Maker, he’s never been more grateful to feel the rise and fall of Hawke’s breathing.

“I’m… not gonna pretend that was the last time. But you probably don’t need to hear all the gory details.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I got better eventually. Things were okay for a while. And then…”

“Then your mother died,” Fenris finishes quietly, digging his fingers in and finally lifting his gaze to look at Hawke again.

“Yeah,” he says, staring down again. “And fuck, I know it’s been three years, but I…”

Fenris pushes his hand up to rest behind Hawke’s neck, pulling him a little closer. “Mourning doesn’t have a deadline.”

Hawke sighs, leaning in against him and mumbling, “Anyway, that’s what Anders and I have been talking about. He’s… been there. And I thought I couldn’t…” _Tell you_.

“I’m sorry,” Fenris murmurs, pulling him in close and threading his fingers in his hair. “What I said was wrong, I… Maker, Hawke, I’m sorry.” Fenris hates how words can’t convey the depth of his feelings. The sick twisting in his gut, the guilt over his suspicions, and the sense that he’s utterly failed Hawke... Maker, maybe he deserves to lose him.

A sudden movement from Hawke startles Fenris out of his pained spiral of thoughts and emotions, and then suddenly Hawke is crushing their mouths together, fingers digging into Fenris’s hair as he kisses him hard. Fenris’s breath hitches, before he finds himself returning the kiss, dragging his fingers over Hawke’s skin. It’s rough and messy and not altogether graceful, but it’s electric enough to make his lyrium thrum.

Hawke tastes of magic, like always—it’s heady and sharp on Fenris’s tongue, edged with fire and wine. It’s a sensation he’s never quite gotten used to, but damn him if it doesn’t light up his nerves as bright as his lyrium. When Hawke finally pulls back, Fenris finds himself missing that taste.

Resting his forehead against Fenris’s, Hawke mumbles, “Sorry.”

Fenris gives a weak laugh, dropping his head to rest on Hawke’s shoulder. “What in the Void are you apologizing for now?”

Hawke’s fingers find the back of Fenris’s neck, rubbing absently in a way that makes Fenris want to melt. “I know I’ve been gone a lot, I just…” He sighs, fingers tensing and then relaxing again. “I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

Fenris pulls back a bit, putting his hand to Hawke’s chin and tilting it up to stare at him. “You don’t have to hide from me, Hawke,” he murmurs, trying to keep the guilt from his voice. How long has Hawke been harboring such pain behind that mask of laughter and charm? And why didn’t Fenris notice _sooner_?

Hawke doesn’t hold his gaze, glancing away and saying, “I just feel stupid, you know? You’ve been through worse shit than I have, but you’ve never even _thought_ about…” He sighs, rubbing his face with his hands and mumbling, “Fuck, I feel so _weak_.”

“You’re not weak, Hawke.” Fenris digs his fingers into Hawke’s hair, holding his gaze. “You have _never_ been weak.”

“Well, there was that one time when I tried to princess lift you…”

Fenris just stares at him, almost ready to tell Hawke to take this _seriously_ … but in a sudden shift of perspective he realizes that this is Hawke’s defense; his way to bite back the pain. Initially, his picture of Hawke as wit and charm and life didn’t make _any_ sense with what Hawke just told him. But he thinks he understands now. So he twitches his mouth into a smile and says, “I think that had more to do with my pride than your strength.”

“Are you saying you intentionally unbalanced me so I’d end up with my ass on the floor? Because that’s cruel, Fenris. You may have to make that up to me later.”

“I suppose I will.” Fenris smiles at him, brushing his cheek. Hawke covers Fenris’s hand with his own, squeezing a bit and smiling back. There’s a moment where there’s nothing but the glow of lyrium between them, before Fenris leans forward to kiss Hawke again—gentler this time, not because Hawke is weak, but because Hawke _matters_.

Hawke leans into the kiss with a sigh, brushing his fingers over the back of Fenris’s neck, and Maker if that doesn’t make him melt. They kiss with gentle hands and glowing skin, lyrium and magic twining together in a way that makes Fenris’s head spin. When they finally break apart, he looks down and says, “I shouldn’t have pressured you. I thought…”

“Yeah, well, I probably should’ve told you.” Hawke laces Fenris’s fingers in his, rubbing his thumb over the lines of lyrium, and Fenris isn’t sure if he’s ever felt anything more intimate. “I’m sorry.”

“If you apologize one more time, I am going to rearrange your insides,” Fenris mumbles, ghosting his fingers through Hawke’s just enough to make good on the threat. It has the intended effect, drawing a laugh from Hawke’s lips.

“Okay, okay. I know better than to piss off my favorite small, broody elf.”

“Mm, you have sense after all.” Fenris smiles at him, but it fades after a moment, and he reaches up to touch Hawke’s face. Hawke, _his_ Hawke, brilliant and broken and beautiful all at once.

His fears over corruption and that twisting jealousy seem so petty now. All this time, losing him had nothing to do with magic or rebellion. Just silence. “Hawke, I don’t… want you to feel like you can’t talk to me.”

Hawke sighs, closing his eyes and dropping his head against Fenris’s shoulder. “Yeah, I know. Look, if I promise to talk to you about it next time, will you stop giving me those puppy eyes?”

Fenris gives him an affronted look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“C’mon, you can’t tell me you aren’t doing that intentionally.” Hawke tilts his head to grin up at him, before pushing back and stretching a bit. He rubs at his face, as if trying to push away the tiredness in his expression, and then says, “I guess I should send Bodahn to let Anders know I’m not coming over today.”

Fenris watches him carefully, pressing his lips together and trying to decide how to proceed. This situation is so very Hawke: fix one issue, ten more spring up in its place. Now, instead of worrying about the mage corrupting Hawke, he has to be concerned with the danger Hawke poses to himself. That’s not an enemy Fenris knows how to fight. And knowing that Hawke has been struggling in silence all this time merely drives that point home further.

So he sighs, apprehension prickling at his skin as he says,  “Perhaps we should go see… Anders, together.”

Hawke draws back enough to stare at him, as if Fenris has turned into an Archdemon before his eyes. “I’m not sure what part of that sentence is more surprising.”

“Yes, yes,” Fenris sighs, tapping his fingers on his arm. “Don’t make me regret it.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Hawke says with a laugh, leaning in for a quick kiss. Then, pulling back, he stares into Fenris’s eyes for a long moment and says, “...thank you, Fenris.”

“For what?” Fenris asks, biting back a bitter laugh. He certainly doesn’t feel like he’s done anything good for Hawke lately.

Hawke gives one of his rare, gentle smiles—the kind edged with devotion instead of charm and amusement. “Not giving up on me.”

Fenris’s breath catches, and he can’t make himself express how utterly impossible that would be. He could no sooner give up on Hawke than put his head down and go back to Danarius. So instead he says, “Don’t thank me.” It makes it sound like he’s _brave_ for being with Hawke, when being with Hawke is the only thing that makes him brave.

“Too late,” Hawke says, charismatic grin returning as he pushes to his feet. He holds a hand out, looking as bright and cheery as ever. “So, should we go pester your favorite mage?”

Fenris hesitates for just one moment, staring up at Hawke with searching eyes. Can he do this? Is he strong enough? Will he be able to make up for how much he’s failed Hawke already?

And then Fenris realizes that doesn’t matter. Whatever happens, he’s going to make sure of one thing: he’s not going to lose Hawke. Not because he owns him, but because he loves him. So he takes Hawke’s hand, lyrium flickering blue, and doesn’t let him go.

(Maybe this is what it means to call someone yours.)


End file.
